Patience
by DeniseV
Summary: In a dictionary search for the word "patience", you would NOT find the name Chris Larabee. No sir. As usual, Ezra bears the scars of that unfortunate fact. A follow-on to my story Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder.


AUTHOR'S NOTE: If you go to my profile at ff. net you can see a picture of my Fred, the dog that Ezra's Fred is based on. He's my sweet boy and I love him so much. He is every bit as charming and sweet and funny and personable as I hope the little hound dog comes off as in these stories. Enjoy!

* * *

The orange and white dog bounded up to the top step of the boardwalk in front of the saloon, dropped his stick, and let loose one very enthusiastic bark.

"Not today, Fred."

Fred replied with two quick, and to Ezra Standish's keen observational skills, obstinate barks.

"Fred, go on home. Ah have other obligations today."

"Like what?" Chris Larabee stepped up alongside Ezra's sometime playmate and joined the gambler under the protection of the overhang of the drinking establishment. The sun was relentless already, making this mid-morning unpleasant for human and canine alike. Fred, just like most _humans_ in these parts, gave the imposing former gunslinger a wide berth as he moved himself – and his stick – to the far edge of the step. Ezra smiled knowingly at the behavior, wiped the sweat from under the brim of his hat, frowned at how much had accumulated since the last time he took the same action, and then answered the question.

"As you are aware, Mistah Jackson has deemed it necessary that Ah, as he is wont to say, 'Take it easy' for the next while, and exercise mah arm," the con man ended worriedly as he flexed the right wrist up and down, and then left and right with the help of his other hand, and then rolled it in a circular motion, wincing through each movement. The next series of exercises were concentrated on his elbow.

Chris knew that his fellow lawman was still on the mend, but that rarely stopped the man from doing whatever he damned well pleased, and there were few things that pleased Ezra more these days than playing with that dog. That animal had become more of a nuisance than the card sharp – and wasn't that saying a lot? – always enlisting one of the townsfolk, particularly members of the law enforcement team of which Chris was the de facto leader, to play with a found stick or the filthy ball that the hound favored. Unfortunately for Fred, it was true that Nathan Jackson had forbid activity for the healing gambler for a few more days, except for the therapy he had prescribed.

"Maybe you could take Fred with you on your stroll about town," the con man suggested with a wince as he manipulated his hand some more. The wince barely hid the smirk at how funny he found what he suggested Chris do actually was. The smirk quickly vanished as he closed his eyes, his mouth tightly closed as well, as he was committed to stifle any and all grunts of pain as he worked the elbow once more.

Chris and Fred both seemed to favor a grimace in reply to the suggestion that they spend quality, or any other time together. Chris had been known to pet the dog on the head, infrequently and decidedly unenthusiastically. There was no rapport built between them, not the way the other lawmen had befriended the little dog. Fred remained leery of the towering and seemingly unfriendly man.

It was a relationship that mirrored the one that Chris and Ezra had for far too long.

"Vin, Buck or Josiah will be by soon enough."

"Ah do not know how you expect the dog to abide your company if you do not give him the time …" The con man grunted as he pushed too hard on his healing hand, "… of day."

"Don't care if he does one way or the other," was the reply as Chris swept his too-long bangs back from his forehead.

"Just give it time, Ezra," Buck Wilmington said as he stepped through the batwing doors, two mugs of coffee in his hand. He stretched his long arm out to the sidelined gamester and handed over the hot brew, a special dark blend from the islands that Ezra ordered from an importer acquaintance back in New Orleans. It was one thing to be forced to drink what was passed off as coffee on the trail, and quite another when said coffee was brewed to a thick goo by Vin Tanner. But in town … at home, it was becoming more important for the professional poker player to bring to this dusty town some of the sophistication that had years before already made it to more easterly parts of the country, and more specifically, his native south.

"Many thanks, Buck," Ezra said before taking his first swallow of the hot, rich beverage. He closed his eyes, savoring the hints of spice in the dark roast, and then asked, "Give what time?"

"Chris and the dog. He'll come around. Chris loves dogs," the ladies' man added as he leaned down, grabbed the stick … wrestling Fred for it, and then tossed it down the avenue.

"Buck," Chris warned as the three friends watched the little hound bound off the top step and jump on the stick, kicking up a cloud of dust as he did so.

"What? You know you do."

"Ain't got time for that," Chris said. Both Buck and Ezra knew that wasn't it. No, it was more about the memories that the dog brought up. The dog reminded him of another time, a time when his little boy would soon be old enough to have a dog and to learn the responsibilities of caring for one. That time never came to be. Buck had assured Ezra that Chris' aversion to the little canine was not personal, except that it really was, and in the most excruciating way possible.

"Mistah Larabee, Fred does not demand as much attention as you may think. He is most demanding, for no more than half of an hour, about two hours after each of his meals. He is, like all canines, happy to enjoy an hours-long siesta in the shade, daydreaming of a beefy, juicy bone or chasing butterflies in a wildflower meadow."

"Sounds like a gamblin' man I know," Buck said with a grin, "leastwise the siesta in the shade part."

"When Ah can, Ah do," Ezra retorted, his gold tooth shining from his broad smile. He wasn't feeling all that well following the workout he'd subjected his arm to, but spending time with his friends had become more and more a perfect way to while away the hours.

Chris frowned as the card sharp continued to move his hand carefully between swallows of his coffee, but it wasn't worry over the man's hand that brought on the scowl. "You feed that mongrel twice a day?" Buck rolled his eyes. "There are some folks around here that feel lucky to get one meal in their bellies each day."

Ezra's green eyes stared back at the tall gunslinger. His hand stopped its therapeutic motion … and Buck could see the hurt in the expressive face. Ezra worked hard to maintain appearances, to assure that he didn't show his hand too often. It was becoming harder for the man to hide his true feelings the closer he got to these men in a place he now thought of as home, a still-dusty burg that was now a growing community rather than just a town to get you to the next town. The slights hurt more, and despite Ezra Standish's considerable ability to hide his feelings most of the time, he was unsuccessful this time. And rather than stand his ground and defend himself … and his dog, for even though the dog actually belonged to Abigail Merton and her parents, the animal mostly only had eyes for Ezra, he stood to leave.

"Hold on, now," Buck said as he gently placed his hand on his healing friend's chest, encouraging him to sit back down. "Finish your coffee." To Chris he said, "What's the matter with you, old pard? You know damn well that dog ain't eatin' like no king. He gets scraps and some feed … "

"And Ezra puts what he don't finish in a napkin and takes it to that damned animal." Ezra stood once more.

"Sit down, Ez." Ezra sat, but he tried very hard to cover that he did so because he really wasn't feeling very well. The injury to his arm turned out to be more serious than any of them thought, the pain that he suffered through with the exercises easy for all to see. Nathan wasn't kidding when he demanded that Ezra take it easy. The healer might have added that their leader take it easy with their ailing seventh as well.

"Mistah Wilmington, Ah am not really feeling up to continuin' this argument."

"Ain't no argument, Ezra. Can't argue an absolute fact," Chris said. He turned to look at the dog. "I ain't seein' no ribs on him."

Ezra stood up, carefully. He felt woozy and hot. What he didn't feel like was getting poked and prodded by Nathan. But mostly he had no stomach for this conversation. He'd grown quite attached to the sweet little hound dog and no matter how illogical it seemed, he simply could not bear to listen to Chris Larabee criticizing him.

"Yes, well … good day … gentlemen." He got up this time and gave Buck a look that said he would not be placed back in that chair. Buck nodded his head in understanding. "Ah believe Ah shall follow Fred's lead and take some rest." He tipped his hat to the mustachioed Lothario and walked toward the batwing doors. Buck frowned. He didn't like how sickly his friend appeared. _'Nate said he was getting better'_, the ladies' man silently recalled.

"Ain't got no leg to stand on," Chris said derisively.

"God damn it, Larabee!" Buck yelled. "What is your problem?" As he walked over to challenge his longtime friend's bad behavior and stand up for Ezra, he heard the batwing doors flap hard against the wall followed by a loud series of thuds and banging inside the saloon, and finally Inez Rocios' normally melodic accented voice. Stress had strangled all of the ordinarily pleasing, lyrical aspects of the voice that he typically attributed to the pretty Mexican. It was a voice that always made him smile, and still did, despite the fact that she and Ezra were now a couple. An on again, off again couple, but that still meant hands off for Buck.

"Ezra! Madre di dios!"

Buck rushed inside to find Ezra passed out on the floor, Inez falling on her skirt to kneel beside him.

"What happened?"

"I don't know. I heard doors slamming hard. I looked up, thinking to see one of the regulars already drunk." Buck understood; it happened more often than it should that Digger Dan's would cut someone off and then the more-than-tipsy person would weave their way down the street to the former Standish Tavern. She blinked, holding back tears, and continued. "He smiled at me and then his expression changed … he seemed confused. And then he fell hard to the floor." A tear trickled down the pretty woman's face. "You will go find Nathan?" she asked.

"He's comin' now," Chris said softly as he stood at the door, looking down on the scene and appearing decidedly guilty. More loudly, he called for the healer. "Nathan! Need ya."

"Thank you, Señor Chris."

Chris waited for Nathan to hurry through the doorway and then turned to leave, a barely audible, "I wouldn't thank me" spoken as he stepped over the threshold.

"What … What is wrong?" Inez asked worriedly, looking from Chris' receding back and then to Buck's kind face. She held Ezra's good hand gently.

"Don't worry none 'bout him. Chris has somethin' up his … well, somethin's botherin' him. He's in a foul mood and he's takin' it out on everybody, even Ezra. Even that innocent little dog."

"What happened?" they heard Nathan ask as he brushed past Chris and joined Buck and Inez at Ezra's side.

"Passed out. Seemed like there was no warnin', 'cept he said he was goin' to his room to rest," Buck explained.

Nathan touched the southerner's forehead, then said, "Hell. He's got a fever, feels mighty high." The healer proceeded to check the gambler's recent injuries. The knee had been healing well. Ezra was more than happy to follow the healer's advice in the hopes of getting back to his regular routine as soon as possible. Nathan checked the knee first. "No swellin', seems all right." He pressed the knee all around, and then picked up Ezra's calf and pushed the knee up and then put it back down. "Flexibility is good. This is fine. If it was hurtin' him I 'spect he would've roused some." The former stretcher-bearer in the war moved up to check Ezra's broken arm. Nathan's own fractured limb still pained him, but it had healed well in the nearly three weeks since he and the gambler were attacked on their return from the reservation. Ezra hadn't been so lucky. He was still in quite a lot of pain, though he'd begun to refuse the medicinal tea, disliking the narcotic effect and the persistent lethargy he felt when he wasn't out cold. His break was far more serious and in a part of the arm that might easily not heal properly if he wasn't easy on it, which was why Ezra had readily adopted his life of leisure, of late.

"Good thing he ain't wearin' his jacket," Buck said. "He ain't wearin' his vest, either," Buck said, his brow furrowed, realizing as he said it how very wrong that picture was.

"It ain't normal," Nathan observed as he carefully removed the sling. "Inez, can you get me a blanket so we can keep his arm up?"

"Of course." The beautiful Mexican hurried away.

Nathan felt the arm through the soft cotton shirt. "Damn," he said as he started to press at the site of the break.

"What?" Chris asked as he stepped back inside. He was worried about the con man's sudden collapse, and he felt altogether an ass for the way he'd spoken to the man. They were friends, but no one would know it by the way he'd treated Ezra over these last moments.

"It's hot," the healer replied. "Somethin' ain't right." He continued examining the arm until he heard Ezra moan. "Probably hurt too much to get his vest and jacket on. Ezra, can you hear me?" the black man asked.

The southerner opened his eyes, blinking sluggishly. He looked around, recognized his surroundings, and said, "Ah am on the floor? The floor of the saloon?"

"You passed out," Buck informed his fellow lawman.

"Ah did?"

"How do you feel?" Nathan asked.

"Tired." He looked around and saw Chris hovering behind Buck. "Ah had decided that mah bed was more appealin' than continuin' to fight with Mistah Lar … " Ezra frowned, looked around, didn't see Fred and asked, "Where is Fred?"

"Hell, Ezra … " Chris said.

"Where is he?" Ezra asked more urgently as he tried to raise himself from his prone position. Buck and Nathan prevented him from getting more than his head off of the floor.

"He's fine," Buck assured his friend. "He's outside, acting as your protector. He's keeping his eye on Chris."

"I wouldn't hurt your damn dog," Chris said, a mix of anger and embarrassment in his tone. _'Did Ezra really think I would hurt that dog?' _he thought to himself.

"And how exactly would Ah know that?"

"All right. That's enough," Buck insisted as he continued at his position between his two friends.

"Buck's right. Ezra, how does your arm feel?"

"Nathan?" Inez handed the blanket over. The healer quickly had it positioned under Ezra's arm. The saloon manager grasped the hand of the man she held so dear and then stepped away, knowing that she couldn't add anything to really help, understanding that Ezra didn't like showing any weakness, especially in front of her. She didn't understand the way he was about this, but she accepted that there was nothing, so far, that she had been able to do to convince him that it was a ridiculous way to be.

"Frankly, Nath'n, Ah'm disgusted with it. Your exercises seem to be havin' no good effect. Indeed, they appear to be havin' a delet … deleter … " Ezra sighed as his mouth could not seem to get out what his brain was searching for. Or was it vice versa? Nathan stared at Ezra, waiting patiently, for he knew that the first answer was always for Ezra's benefit; the man liked to talk, though right now he seemed less than perfectly verbose, which Nathan knew he should be pleased about … but he wasn't. The card sharp re-phrased, for everyone's benefit. "They are havin' a negative effect. It hurts nearly all o' the time." Ezra closed his eyes. Getting that out took way more effort than it should have.

"Damn it, Ezra," Chris said. "Why don't you tell Nathan when you're not … " The healer cut their leader off.

"Chris, stop. He has been tellin' me, all along, that his arm's been botherin' him. I thought that with that kind of fracture, that it was just extra tender."

"And?" Ezra asked, encouraging his friend to go on, knowing that there was more.

"Well, Ezra, sometimes it's hard to tell if you are serious about your hurts or just whining for … " Nathan stopped, knowing that he was talking himself to exactly where Ezra wanted him to be. He felt like he was at the end of Ezra Standish's excellent aim.

"You felt that Ah was … whining for no good reason."

"I'm sorry, Ezra. I should have listened to you."

"Yes."

"I'm listening now." Nathan's big brown eyes held Ezra's disappointed green ones for a long time. He added, "Seriously, now, how much are you hurtin'?"

"Well, Mistah Jackson, as serious as Ah was the last times you asked, it hurts. It hurts very badly."

"Then why did you stop takin' the tea?" the black man asked, frustrated, though most of that frustration was directed at his own stubborn self.

Ezra closed his eyes in an attempt to control his anger. He breathed in, a deep, hopefully cleansing breath, and let it out, and then said, "After havin' been told ovah and ovah and ovah again that the healin' _'needed time'_ or that the pain seemed _'worse than it really was'_," Ezra answered, happy to throw Nathan's words of the last few weeks back at him, "Ah surmised that Ah must not really require the tea and that, indeed, it might have been doin' more harm than good. This was most assuredly true in regard to mah mental health ... and mah appetite."

Nathan nodded, accepting Ezra's view of what had been going on, and his own culpability in where things currently stood with the bad state of the gambler's arm.

"So?" Chris asked, thus far unhappy with the lack of a prognosis from Nathan.

"I think his arm is infected, at the bone." Ezra remained laying on the floor, stone-faced, as Nathan explained. "Seen this in the war a few times." Nathan looked Ezra in the eyes. "I'll need to cut in and get as much of the infection out as possible. Might need to re-break it. It's likely it's healin' bad if there's as much infection as seems likely. And then … "

Ezra's expression hadn't changed, but Chris, Buck and Inez all looked ill.

"And then?" Buck asked, impatient with Nathan and heartsick for the renewed pain that Ezra would be facing.

"I'll need to clean it out good, carbolic and alcohol and … " Nathan stopped describing the hell Ezra would soon face, but they all knew that he had not finished describing what was to come.

"Good lord, Mistah Jackson. Spit. It. Out."

"To make sure we got the infection, I'll need to keep that area open for about forty-eight hours, clean it regular." Nathan looked down to the floor, shook his head, and then looked back up. "I … maybe … I think I maybe should o' done that the first time."

"Nate, you didn't know it would get infected," Buck said in an attempt to ease the healer's guilt. Ezra looked at the dark-haired man, confused, definitely unhappy, and he jumped when Nathan bellowed a reply to Buck's words.

"I damned well should have, Buck!" Everyone at the bar turned, curious to see the normally mild-mannered and courteous black man suddenly so angry. More quietly, but with a steely rather than mild manner, he continued, "I told you, I seen this before, in the field hospital during the war. They didn't have time to save arms, early on. At the end, the doctors, they did just what I described, with the cleaning, only … " Nathan seemed unwilling to go on as he looked at his hands resting on his thighs as he sat on his knees before his ailing friend.

"Only?" Ezra asked quietly.

"Only," Nathan continued, swallowed, and then finished, "they did it when they originally set the break. Didn't most times have to do the second break."

"Hell, Nathan, most of the men who survived usually went home short an arm, leg. You know that," Chris said.

"Ah b'lieve that Mistah Jackson is simply stressin' that he has not had extensive experience with this type of break, am Ah right, Nathan?"

Nathan nodded, grateful that Ezra could still consider him friend enough to call him by his first name. "That's true, Ezra. But I still should have worked harder to prevent the infection."

"Yes, well … what is done is done. Ah assume Ah will be spending some more time in your fine clinic?"

"Don't know how fine it is, but yeah, I'd like ya there tonight. We'll get started in the morning."

"Very well. Might Ah request that Ah retrieve mah down pillah and a few other personal items?"

"Tell me what you want. I'll get 'em, hoss."

"Thank you kindly, Buck." The card sharp yawned before he could continue. "Mah apologies."

"Not necessary, Ez. Whaddya need?"

"For the present, mah pillah, mah nightshirt - there is a clean on in the second drawer from the bottom - mah shaving kit … "

"Ezra," Chris interrupted.

"Ah will require assistance, but please, mah shaving kit and the two books on the nightstand."

"I'll take care of it for ya, Ez."

"Many thanks, Buck."

"You hungry?" Nathan asked. He could tell that Ezra was feeling better.

"Ah should eat a little something, Ah suppose."

"I will bring you a tray in a little while. Scrambled eggs and a biscuit?"

"Thank you, mah dear. That sounds perfect."

"I have some fresh strawberries," Inez added.

"With cream?" the southerner asked hopefully.

"Of course." Inez reached her hand over and placed it on Ezra's cheek. He took the hand, brought it to his lips and kissed it lovingly. Then the pretty woman stood back, pressed her dress down and quickly headed to the kitchen. No one spoke of seeing her hand wipe away her tears as she left.

"Mistah Larabee, is there any word on the other Wilsons?"

"Do we need to talk about this now?" Nathan asked. "I'd like to get Ezra over to the clinic."

"Ah am certain an update will not take too long, am Ah right?" the con man asked of the gunslinger.

"No, but before I answer that question, I wanna apologize for how I was actin' earlier. There was no call for me to behave like that."

"Very well."

Chris frowned. "Very well? What the hell does that mean?"

"Good lord," the card sharp offered in reply. "It means that Ah accept that you are sincere in what you … wait one moment. Buck, Nathan, help me up." The two men looked at one another for just a second before Ezra demanded, "Now, please!" They helped him up and into a chair. "Mistah Larabee, might Ah ask why it matters? 'Very' and 'well' are in no way a negative reflection of mah opinion of what you said. But now Ah find mahself in the position of having to defend mah vocabulary?" The gambler reached his good hand over to the wall in an effort to not fall when he tried to rise from his chair. "Ah have had enough of any and all communication this day."

"Ezra, let me and Nate help ya up." Ezra allowed them to assist, but he kept his mouth tightly shut.

"Ezra!" Chris called, but he was cut off quickly and loudly by Inez Rocios.

"¡Basta Ya! Enough!" She stared the notorious gunslinger down, watching out of the corner of her eye as Nathan and Buck slowly escorted Ezra out of the drinking establishment and over to the clinic. Chris turned to follow, but Inez's firm "No!" stopped him.

"What?"

"What? Señor Chris, Ezra would never have said the things that he just did, even when hurt or sick. He and I … we thought that he would no longer need to defend himself to you."

"I didn't mean … "

"You did not mean what you said?" she stated in question. "You did not mean to upset him? You did not mean to challenge the far-too-quickly accepted apology from you?" Chris looked down at his boots as Inez iterated the slights against the gambler that Chris had offered up, all in just one day. "He thought that you were friends," she said, her brown eyes boring into the tall blond's light-colored ones. "He wants to be your friend. He hoped that he had finally earned your respect, if not your trust."

"We are … "

"Señor Chris," she pleaded, placing her hand on the man's forearm, "please be his friend." She dropped her hand and started to walk away. She turned around and said, "Please tell them I will only be slightly delayed." The pretty tavern manager sent the leader of The Seven an encouraging and hopeful smile and headed to the kitchen.

It was too late for Inez to hear, but Chris felt the need to say it, even though he was the only one who would hear it.

"I do respect him. And I trust him." He shook his head and then added, "And I can see why he wouldn't know either one of those things."

* * *

Chris Larabee took a walk up and down the avenue, and then re-traced the same path two times more before he found himself at the clinic door. He prepared to knock just as the door opened wide.

"Wondered if you'd be stoppin' in, old pard," Buck Wilmington said as he scowled at his longtime friend. Chris could tell that Buck was ready to punch him, and the former gunslinger knew he deserved it. He had been treating the card sharp in an, as Ezra would say, abominable manner. He thought he'd given up that old habit, the one where no matter what bad thing might have transpired, Chris either found a way to blame Ezra, or he took just his anger out on the card sharp anyway. It was wrong, doubly wrong because he knew that Ezra would just take the abuse.

Or at least he used to.

Chris had been more than surprised that Ezra stood up to him, but he also knew that the southern gentleman's reaction meant that he was closer to the end of his rope than he had ever been. Rope is strong, as is Ezra Standish, but a frayed rope could snap with no notice. Had Ezra finally come to that rough edge? Was that last strand ready to break?

"I walked town patrol. Three times. Needed to think."

"I'll bet. Well, go on in. Nate and me got him settled. He's had some of Nate's skunk piss. He'll be asleep soon," Buck added.

"Thanks."

"Don't thank me, Chris. You pull this crap again, I'm likely to forget how long I've known ya." They stared each other down, but Chris finally nodded. He knew that he had gone too far, acted badly. "You noddin' your head better mean somethin'," the handsome gunman warned. He cocked his head, his attempt to ease the tension between them. He grinned sadly and said, "Just take it easy on him, okay? Tomorrow is gonna be a shit day for him."

"I know."

"All right, then. Goodnight," the ladies' man said, patting Chris on the back as he left the clinic. Chris turned toward the bed to find a rabid dog in front of him. A rabid dog by the name of Nathan Jackson.

"I just wanna see how he's doin'," Chris explained.

"Let him pass, Nathan," Ezra called tiredly.

"Keep it short," Nathan cautioned. Chris nodded and started to walk past the big black man, but the healer stopped him with a hand to his chest. "Stay calm, be nice," Nathan warned softly but firmly. Both men smirked, recognizing the suggestion as one of the strangest exchanges the two men had ever had.

"Pestilence, Mistah Jackson. You wish for the gods to reign terror upon us by requestin' such of a thing of Chris Larabee," Ezra mocked from the bed. He looked comfortable though pale. _'Shit'_, Chris thought. The man had been feeling poorly as it was and Chris gave him nothing but a whole lot of shit all day.

"I can be nice," Chris said in his own defense. He heard Nathan snort as the former slave gave as much privacy to the two men as he could. He started working at his table, just beyond the bed and across from the dresser. His lamp allowed him barely enough light for putting away the order of supplies that arrived the day before. Gloria Potter's son, now approaching his teen years and grown strong and tall in the three years that The Seven had protected the town that they now called home, helped carry the boxes and bags up to the clinic the evening before.

"Why are you heah? Ah do not know the exact time, but it must be late enough for you to be abed," punctuated by a large yawn. "Goodness. Mah apologies."

"It's ain't even suppertime. And you don't need to apologize for bein' tired."

"It's not even suppertime? What … " the gambler looked confused, upset that he could get the time so wrong.

"You should be sleepin', Ezra. You're over-tired and hurtin', got a fever and infection. It's a wonder you know what end is up," Nathan said. As the healer explained Ezra's confusion, Chris took a seat in the chair beside the bed where Ezra lay. Even though it wasn't as late as Ezra thought, Chris still felt tired, as tired as Ezra looked, his anger, at himself, and his worry catching up with him.

Ezra's eyes blinked heavily. "So, you are here," he said to Chris, hardly able to get it out.

"Just wanted you to know that me bein' an ass all day had nothin' to do with you."

"Ah know." Ezra closed his eyes, and it seemed like he was falling asleep. He opened his eyes, found Chris looking at him, and realization came to him. He'd started to fall asleep in the middle of the conversation. He managed to come up with something to make it not seem as though that was the case. "It seems you and Ah will nevah move more than a couple of feet before we fall back three or four." Ezra looked away, and then added, "Always at each other's throats,"

"That ain't true," both Chris and Nathan said. Ezra offered a faint shake of the head but kept his eyes averted from his two friends. The healer added, "Sorry. This ain't my conversation." He stepped away from his table and said, "I'll be back in fifteen minutes." He grabbed the tray that Inez had brought in earlier and headed out the door. Chris looked to Ezra and saw that the man was valiantly trying to stay awake, so the former gunslinger decided to continue what he'd started.

"_We_ weren't at each other's throats." Chris stood and walked to the window, but he turned back to look at the ill man before he continued. "_You_ didn't have a row or a fight or an argument with me. I was in the wrong and if I couldn't find an obvious way to blame you for everything that went wrong this week, then I was more than happy to make up something so that I _could_ blame you."

The gambler turned back to look at Chris. "And how old are you? This behavior is much more in line with someone the age of, say, young Master Travis?"

"Yeah," Chris replied. "Anyway, I wanted you to know that I really am sorry for the way I've acted and what I said to you."

"So as not to confuse, or leave open to interpretation, or in any other way be the cause of a misunderstanding, apology accepted." Ezra smiled wearily.

"Good." Chris looked to the door and then back to the gambler, who just that fast was snoring lightly. "I'll wait here until Nathan gets back," the leader of the lawmen of Four Corners said to absolutely no one awake or nearby to hear it. He sat in the chair.

Not more than ten minute later, Chris heard the door open. He could just see Nathan enter out of the corner of his eye when he said, "Fell asleep right after … " He stopped talking as he watched Nathan being led into his clinic at gunpoint.

"Sorry, Chris. I didn't see … ." The black man was cut off as one of the two men who followed him in shoved him to the floor. Ezra's eyes opened to slits as he quickly realized that all the noise meant that something was wrong. Nathan wasn't far from the bed now and he easily saw the slight shake of the head that told the healer to remain quiet about the con man's wakeful state.

"Heard two o' yas killed my brother and my two cousins."

"And you would be?" Chris asked, his eyes focused primarily on the gun held in each man's right hand, but at the same time assessing whether what was before his eyes was the only threat.

"You know who we is. Now which o' ya is the one who was with the nigger when ya killed ma kin?"

"Ah detest that moniker, Mistah … Wilson, is it?" Ezra said weakly from the bed. "Ah realize just now, Mistah Larabee, that we were unable to finish our conversation regarding the whereabouts of these remaining miscreants."

"Mis … what?" the Wilson asked who had been doing the talking so far.

"Think that's because you got mad," Chris goaded.

"Ah beg to differ," the card sharp interrupted. "There is little doubt that our miscommunication earlier was entirely your fault," Ezra continued. Despite being in a fevered and exhausted state, and having woken from a far-too-short nap, the observant gambler knew that these two men were at the bottom of the Wilson family's evolutionary tree. The more Ezra talked, the more distracted these two would become. The con man was unarmed, at least so far as his guns were concerned. He knew Nathan had been disarmed. He was fairly certain the former slave still sported his knives on his back, but his coat currently prevented access to them. If they played this correctly, they really only needed Chris Larabee's one gun and his infamous speed to get out of this.

_And_ Ezra Standish's extensive vocabulary. And most especially, Chris Larabee's willingness to play along.

"I don't know what the hell you're talkin' 'bout, Ezra."

"Did he jest call the one in black Larabee?" the Wilson who had not yet spoken asked.

"Don't worry, we got 'm," the more talkative of the pair said.

"If Ah were you, Ah would worry," Ezra noted, followed by a yawn. "He is a ruthless son-of-a-bitch. Ah can attest to the fact that this notorious gunslinger is no paragon of virtue. He would most definitely, and preferably so, shoot down any man, woman, even child, who deigned to cross him."

"Darren … " the second brother said. Both brothers looked to each other, an action known to the other three men in the room as a wide open door for Chris Larabee. He pulled his colt and shot one in the hand. The wanted man dropped the gun as the bullet shattered bone and splashed blood. The second man turned, his gun following toward Chris. The 'notorious' gunman had no choice but to aim to kill, which he did. The bullet found its target, entering the man's chest. He dropped to the floor, dead before his gun had been released from his now unfeeling hand. A bullet fired from his weapon, but it ricocheted off of a post and end up smothered in the pile of rags that Nathan had yet to put away.

"Good lord," Ezra said as he saw the blood splattered on the floor and on Nathan's back. The tension left his body and he let himself sink into the pillows.

Vin and Buck stormed into the room, the door still open. They found Chris tying rope around Darren Wilson's hands.

"Everybody all right?" Buck asked.

"Fine," Chris called as he yanked hard on the rope around the surviving Wilson brother's wrists.

"I'm all right," Nathan said as he slowly made his way to his feet, rubbing behind his head and reaching down his neck to his upper back.

"Ezra?" Vin called to his friend. He received no answer and as he passed Nathan and neared the bed, his worry built. "Ezra?" he asked again. No answer the second time had him calling urgently for the healer.

Nathan stepped up and felt for a pulse. "He's all right. Just sleepin', which is what he should be doin'."

"You're sure?" Buck said, his concern evident, but being asked a question he had just answered, especially after having suffered the indignity of being caught and causing all of this trouble just made Nathan irritable.

"He is sleeping. You all get this cleaned up and get out of here. And get to bed early. I'm gonna need ya tomorrow."

Chris was none-too-gentle with Darren Wilson. And Darren Wilson was in no mood to stay calm.

"You killed my brother!" he yelled as he tried to pull himself from Chris' grasp. It would do no good, but he kept trying and kept yelling.

"Shut up and I won't knock ya out," Chris said. Buck and Vin carried the dead brother out. Before he left, holding the rope that was already making Wilson's hands turn red, Chris turned back to the healer. Wilson growled at being yanked to a stop.

"You piece of shit. I'm going to kill you."

"No you won't. Judge is due here in the next couple o' days. You'll be hanging or heading to Yuma prison soon enough." To Nathan he said, "I'll send Josiah so you can get cleaned up. I'll take his shift so he can be fresh in the morning." Letting Josiah know what had gone on was another insurance policy that the man wouldn't over-indulge at the saloon, though knowing how the former preacher felt about the gambler, Chris was pretty certain Josiah already had plans to stay sober even if he hadn't been scheduled for the late shift. "Do you want me to send Vin or Buck back so you can get a good night's sleep?"

"Make it Buck. I'll need Josiah and Vin when we re-do Ezra's arm." The former slave looked to the sleeping southerner and shook his head. "Damned shame," he added softly, but still loud enough for Chris to hear.

"He'll be fine," the former gunslinger said. Nathan didn't acknowledge the comment; he just kept on watching his patient.

* * *

"Where's your benefactor, dog?" The orange and white hound dog stared at the man, the towering figure in black that he no longer feared as he once did.

"Ah see that once again, Mistah Wilmington, you are wrong," Ezra said as Buck walked beside the healing man. Nearly a week had passed since Nathan, Josiah and Vin re-broke, re-set, spent two long days assuring that the wound was clean, and re-splinted the gambler's arm. The healer forbid the con man to move about town unattended, so it was Buck who escorted Ezra to and from the outhouse. "One wonders how Mistah Larabee's vocabulary can withstand 'benefactor' but is unable to manage 'Fred'." The little dog wagged his tail excitedly as his favorite person said his name.

"Yeah, see what you mean," Buck agreed. To Chris he said, "Thought you'd warm up to the little fella." The ladies' man helped Ezra into his rocking chair and gave Fred a quick rub behind his left ear.

"Ah believe, in Mistah Larabee's own way, he already has. He did not address Fred as 'mongrel'."

"Yeah, 'cause 'dog' gives ya the impression that Chris has all warm and cuddly feelins for the little feller," Vin said as he joined his three friends outside of the saloon. The notorious gunslinger glared at the ex-bounty hunter. Vin grinned back and then asked, "We waitin' on the others? I'm starvin'."

"Monsieurs Jackson and Sanchez will be returnin' from the Jackson homestead – no relation – by noon tomorrah," Ezra informed the tracker.

"The baby comin'?" Vin asked.

"No. Young Master Jackson broke his arm." Ezra shook his head.

"Seems breakin' arms is contagious around here," Chris commented.

"'Parently, so is havin' babies," Vin said, glancing over to Buck.

"Hey, now, don't you look at me. I have been busy with other things," Buck said, "sorry to say," he added. "I mean, not that I want to be a daddy, I mean, not now. Ain't had the opportunity of late is what I mean." His brow furrowed as he said it. All of a sudden, he felt his hat being removed from his head. He turned to find J.D. stepping away.

"What happened, 'animal magnetism' lost its charge?" Everyone laughed. Ezra patted his lap and Fred jumped up into it.

"Yer gonna have short bits of white hair all over ya," Vin warned as he reached over and ran his hand from the hound dog's head, over his back and then ended with a few affectionate rubs on the dog's back end. Fred stretched his neck, his head reaching high toward the early evening sky.

"Damn dog thinks he's a coyote," Chris said.

"Mongrel, damn coyote … 'dog'," Ezra said. "Yes, Ah can see that Fred has grown on you."

"Well, Ezra, he is a mongrel, and a dog, by definition," J.D. said. "Now the coyote part, I'm pretty sure they are descended from … ." The young sheriff stopped talking as he realized that everyone was staring at him. "What?"

"Mistah Dunne, it was not the coyote part with which Ah took offense. It was the 'damn' part, though Ah would be remiss if Ah did not remind us all that 'damned' is the correct word." Ezra petted the dog as he continued, "As Ah know you have all learned, Fred is a wonderful dog. Ah do believe, Buck's protestations aside, that Mistah Larabee does not like the canine species."

Chris turned toward the batwing doors of the saloon, offering a hardly loud enough to be heard, 'That ain't it' before he crossed the threshold into the drinking establishment.

"What'd he say?" J.D. asked.

Buck and Vin hoisted Ezra, gently, out of his seat. Fred jumped down as Ezra headed up; it was an action well-practiced between man and dog. "Didn't hear," the tracker said, though the look he gave first Buck, and then Ezra, said otherwise. Buck shared a glance with the gambler, but the lean gunman just shrugged his shoulder and shook his head. Ezra nodded, understanding that even someone who had known Chris Larabee as long as Buck Wilmington had didn't have all the answers. Even Buck would have a hard time reading the former gunslinger when he was like this. That did not mean that Ezra shouldn't take action.

"Ah, too, was unable to decipher what our dour leader said." Ezra seemed to be holding steady now that he had been helped up, his cane being used strategically in his good hand. "Come along Fred. You will be joining us for supper."

The little orange and white hound dog cocked his head as he looked up to his favorite person. His forehead, which sported three orange spots that looked a little bit like, well, tiny oranges, wrinkled as he looked to the still-swinging doors of the saloon. His eyes came back around to Ezra, but he stood his ground. He knew better than to follow the man in black. Ezra took a couple of steps and heard Fred's nails tapping on the boardwalk, but not for long. As he reached the doorway, he realized that Fred was no longer following. The con man turned to the little dog. "Fred?" For his part, Fred stomped first his front left leg, and then his right, then the left and then the right again, looking precisely like a truculent little boy. It was behavior none of them were accustomed to seeing. Fred rarely disobeyed the southern gentleman who treated him like royalty.

"Don't think he wants to join us for supper," J.D. observed.

"I ain't too keen on sittin' through a meal with Chris right now, either," Buck admitted.

"Yes, well, although Ah agree with the sentiment, Ah believe it is well past time that Mistah Larabee and Mistah Fred become bettah acquainted. And there is no more civilized way to achieve that end than to sit down to a fine meal."

"Ain't like the dog … uh, Fred, is gonna be havin' a talk with Chris," Vin said with an amused grin.

"Can ya imagine that little tête-à-tête? Ain't often you can say that Chris Larabee dominated a conversation," Buck joked.

Ezra's eyebrow rose at the use of the French word from the former Texas Ranger, and then said, "You gentlemen are missin' the point altogether. With Chris, one must take baby steps … and exude much patience." The gambler looked down to the little dog who he had saved so many months ago, and who was taken in by the Merton family. The dog had brought Ezra much comfort and joy, especially comfort as he had suffered through one illness or injury after another. The canine made friends easily with all of the other members of The Magnificent Seven, even Nathan who, like Ezra, seemed to have found a kindred spirit in the smart, kind and affectionate hound. Both men agreed that the dog had played a significant part in their own improved relationship. What Ezra saw in the current relationship between Chris Larabee and Fred the hound dog was much like where he and Chris had been for so very long. It took work and patience and many a late night supper, and a lot of liquor, before they finally came to an understanding, had a final reckoning … found that they were friends. Ezra had been sometimes frustrated, sometimes annoyed, always hopeful. Chris had just been Chris, and acted often during that time exactly how he was reacting to Fred.

"If anyone knows about having patience when dealing with Chris, it's you, Ez," J.D. said, not even attempting to hide his admiration.

"Sure it is, when he aint' tryin' Chris' last nerve," Buck added.

"There is always a point, a dividing line that, for mah own welfare, Ah shall nevah breach," the con man said with a knowing smile. All of his friends knew that the smile was also likely there as the southerner thought back to those times where he had taken things far-too-close to the point where Chris was just shy of his promise to shoot the gambler, though they all knew that it had been an empty threat once Chris had gotten to know the card sharp. Oh, Ezra was annoying, there was no doubting that. But he was a good member of their group, clever, slick with words and one of the best men with a gun that Chris Larabee had ever known. Ezra might have been using blanks that first time they'd met as Ezra raked folks over the coals, but he was deadly with real bullets.

"Took you a while to figure it out," Vin said as he took the long blade of dry grass he'd been chewing on and tossed it into the street.

"Oh, Ah was well aware of the line early-on," Ezra informed his friend.

"So ya kept on pushin' Chris … " Buck asked.

"'Cause he could," Vin interrupted with the answer.

Ezra waited as Buck, Vin and then J.D. made their way through the batwing doors and into the former Standish Tavern. Ezra sighed, as he often did when he entered the building. None of his friends ever pointed out that he did this; some of them knew their roles in what had transpired, in how his dream had been snatched from him by his own mother. None of them were inclined to remind him more of what he'd lost than the reminder of stepping into the drinking establishment already did.

The southerner looked down at his orange and white companion and said, "You will sit next to Chris and you will be a good man."

Fred took his eyes from the most important person in his life to look longingly down the street to the Merton house. He took one step back that way, but Ezra foiled his getaway by placing his cane in the animal's way.

"Come along, Fred. We have work that needs to be done."

The End.


End file.
